My father can’t look at me anymore. He can’t see past the bright teal bra straps tight on my slouched shoulders.

I live on a hill. A very steep hill.

There are some fruits that never show up in poems.

I was sixteen the first time I read a book with a character with a disability like mine. Not even a main character—just a character that I could point to and say, he’s like me.

Thirty minutes was enough time to clean the kitchen, change out of her sweats, brush her hair, and apply a pinch of makeup—but it wasn’t enough time to find herself a baby.

I hope my dandruff falls like the heavy dust from a window’s ledge unto your Madewell Sweater. / I hope the greasy shea butter sticks to your fingers while you are too far from a bathroom to wash your hands.